Promise of Blood

chapter 38



How are you going to explain this to the Church?” Olem asked.

“Easy,” Tamas said with a conviction he didn’t feel. “The Church doesn’t like to be played any more than we do. Charlemund will provide us with what we need to oust him in their eyes. He’s pomp and bravado. He’ll not stand up to more than a few hours with our questioners.”

The carriage rocked heavily as they approached Charlemund’s vineyard. Tamas eyed Olem. He was a soldier, through and through. He would carry out Tamas’s orders. Yet he was no fool. Olem wanted to be certain he wasn’t charging blindly to his death.

“Torture an arch-diocel?” Olem asked. He finished cleaning and loading Tamas’s long-barreled pistol. Tamas was grateful he didn’t smoke around gunpowder. Olem handed the weapon to Tamas and started on his own. “You really think he’ll tell us what we need to know?”

“Yes,” Tamas said, hoping that there was enough confidence in his voice. Arresting the arch-diocel was insanely risky. If Adamat didn’t really have enough evidence; if the Church decided to ignore the evidence; pit, if the Church didn’t care, Tamas’s world would come crashing down around him. No one, not even Kez’s immense armies of spies and assassins, could destroy someone’s life as thoroughly as the Church.

The carriage came to a jolting stop. Tamas glanced out the window. A dragoon rode by, then another. Sabon came to the carriage window.

“We’ve taken the gatehouse. No sign of movement inside the villa.”

“Very good,” Tamas said. He lifted his pistol and saluted Sabon with the barrel. “Let’s go in.”

The carriage rocked forward and through the villa’s front gate. A pair of guards in purple-and-gold Church doublets stood between two of Tamas’s soldiers, hands on their heads, glaring at the carriages as they went by.

“I hope you’ll have the good sense to let us go in first, sir,” Olem said.

“And miss the look on Charlemund’s face when you tell him the charges? Bloody pit, no. I’ll hobble my ass up those front steps with the rest of you.”

“He may put up a fight,” Olem said.

Tamas fingered his pistol. “I hope so.”

“You’re willing to risk his bodyguard having a few air rifles?” Olem said. “It only takes one.”

“You ruin my fun, Olem. You really do.”

The carriage stopped again after a few minutes. Sabon opened the carriage door. “The house and yards are surrounded. Our men checked the chapel and most of the outlying buildings. His carriage is in the carriage house. He is likely inside.”

Sabon did not look happy.

“And?” Tamas said.

“No sign of workers anywhere. It’s a nice day. They should be in the vineyards working the fields, exercising the horses. The place is like a ghost town. I—”

Sabon’s next words were cut off by a bullet as it entered his left temple. He fell without a sound, blood spraying across the inside of the carriage.

The popping sound of air rifles was followed by the shouts of ambushed soldiers. A bullet ripped through the carriage over Tamas’s head. A horse screamed. He struggled toward the door.

“Oh no, sir,” Olem said, grabbing his coat.

Tamas pushed Olem away and leaned over the edge of the carriage. Sabon lay in the mud, dead eyes staring up blankly.

“Bugger that,” Tamas said. He swung out the door, analyzing the villa in a second. It sprawled across his view. The whitewashed stucco front was immaculate and the high, narrow windows and thick brick of the ancient style gave the defenders the advantage. There were at least fifty windows on the front of the building. The air rifles could have been firing from any—or all—of them. Tamas caught sight of the barrel of an air rifle and fired his weapon at that window. He pulled himself in, the sound of bullet impacts and ricochets too loud for comfort. He began to reload. “What the pit…?”

Olem leapt from the carriage. He turned around and grabbed Tamas by the coat, pulling him after, onto his shoulder, and ran toward the vineyards.

“To the pit with you!” Tamas said. He grunted as he was thrown to the ground and felt the pain lance up his leg. Olem dropped down beside him, panting hard, rifle in one hand. They were in a ditch, mud squelching under Tamas’s boots. His leg burned horribly, the pain wrecking his mind. Tamas snatched a powder charge from his pocket and tore it open, emptying the contents into his mouth. He crunched down, chewing the grit with rage, ignoring the taste of sulfur and the pain in his teeth.

“What was that?” Tamas demanded.

Olem glanced over the edge of the ditch. “Carriage has taken seven or eight hits since we left,” he said.

Tamas didn’t reply. The powder trance was coming on quickly. The world spun for a moment and he gripped the grass to keep from falling off. His senses righted themselves. The crack of rifle shots reached him as his men began returning fire. The sound was chased by the smell of black powder. Tamas gasped it in, deepening his powder trance, willing away the pain in his leg.

“They have more than a few air rifles,” Olem said. He sneaked a peek over the edge of the ditch, then brought his rifle up, aimed, and fired. “At least twenty. Probably more,” he said, dropping down. “And Wardens.”

“You sure?”

“Just saw an ugly brute in the window.”

Tamas finished reloading his pistol. The pain from his leg had begun to fade to the back of his mind. “Wardens,” he said. “I hate Wardens.” He looked over the hill. The front of the villa looked normal enough, but the windows were open, rifle barrels sticking through. He could see the grotesque shape of Wardens within, aiming down their rifles, as well as the bright colors of Charlemund’s bodyguard. He fired his pistol, burning half a powder charge to nudge the bullet where he wanted. One of the rifles fell inside.

“Who tipped them off?” Tamas snarled. “There’s a spy among my own men. Among my elite!”

“We should worry about whether we brought enough men,” Olem said. “We have less than a hundred. If he’s got any number of Wardens in there along with his own bodyguard, we could be in trouble.”

Vlora suddenly dropped down beside him. “Sir,” she said. “We need to retreat. We’re taking heavy losses. I lost two from my carriage just trying to get to cover.”

“Pit,” Tamas said. They didn’t have enough men to take Charlemund. If they retreated, however, he’d be gone within an hour. There was no way they could get back quickly enough with more soldiers. “We’ll button him up. He can’t get out. They don’t know whether we have a hundred men or a thousand. Vlora, I want you to get out of here. Get back to the garrison. No, get to Lady Winceslav’s estate. It’s closer. I want two thousand men from the Wings of Adom here within an hour.”

“Sir, I’ll send someone.”

“No, go yourself.” Tamas squeezed his eyes shut and saw Sabon take the bullet to the head all over again. He would not lose another friend this day. He slapped her on the shoulder. “That’s an order, soldier. Go!”

Vlora took off running away from the house. Tamas risked another look at the villa.

One of the carriages had overturned when a wounded horse bolted. The animal had been cut free, and four soldiers huddled behind the carriage, reloading desperately. “That’s a bad place for them,” Tamas said. “We need to get some cover fire, have them pull back to a ditch or the vineyard.”

He’d barely finished the sentence when sorcery ripped through the overturned carriage. He turned away, the flash blinding him as men screamed. The carriage was cut in two, the pieces tossed to either side as if discarded by the hand of a god. The soldiers were shredded, thrown through the air like ribbon. One landed near Tamas’s ditch.

Tamas dropped his pistol and dragged himself over the bank.

“Sir!”

The powder trance pumping through his veins, Tamas barely noticed the feel of cobbles cracking against his knees. He was next to the soldier in just a second, pulling himself along the ground with his arms. He grabbed the soldier by the leg. A rifle shot went off not far over his head. Olem stood over him, teeth gritted, presenting himself as a better target in order to draw enemy fire. He reached down, snatched Tamas by the back of his jacket, and pulled both Tamas and the soldier back into the ditch.

“What the pit, sir!” Olem said. “Are you trying to die?”

“How is he?” Tamas could see now that the soldier had been cut through directly by the sorcery. His chest was in tatters. It was impossible to tell where the flesh ended and the bloody uniform began. Olem put an ear next to his mouth and shook his head.

Sorcery erupted again. Screams came from the vineyard, where a number of soldiers had found a spot to hide. Tamas gritted his teeth. “It has to be Nikslaus,” he said. He reloaded his pistol and looked out of the ditch. “Where are you, you arrogant son of a whore?” He opened his third eye, pushed away the dizziness with anger, and scanned the villa.

“There,” he said. A cluster of bright-colored smudges indicated that the sorcerer was hiding in a room not far from the front door, crouched far beneath a window. Tamas gritted his teeth. The brick would stop bullets. But it wouldn’t stop a bounce. He fingered a powder charge. He lay a finger on the trigger, when a flash of light caught his eye.

“Mirrors,” he said. “Pit. He’s using mirrors. He’s in a sorcerer’s box.”

“A what?” Olem said.

“It’s an armored box. You stuff a sorcerer inside, with a pinhole and a set of decent mirrors to see what he’s aiming at, and he can tear up armies without getting shot by a powder mage. It’s hot and cramped, but it keeps them alive in a melee. Charlemund was ready for this.”

“Can’t you just shoot the mirror?”

Tamas was already lining up the shot. “He’ll have extra,” he said. His rifle bucked in his hand and the bullet shattered the mirror. “But it might buy us some time.”

“Sir,” Olem said, tugging on his jacket. “They’ve stopped firing.”

The sound of powder rifles from his own soldiers was few and far between, while the pop of air rifles had stopped completely. He gave a shaky sigh. How many men had he lost already?

“Tamas!” a voice shouted from the villa.

“He might be trying to mark your position, sir,” Olem said.

“Tamas, we need to talk!”

“About your execution,” Tamas muttered.

“Sir.” Olem’s voice held a note of warning. “Careful. We don’t have many men left. We might want to find out what he wants.”

“Tamas!” Charlemund shouted. “I’ve got Wardens and a sorcerer. We’ll tear your men to bits before you have the chance to retreat.”

Tamas took a deep breath, trying to still his rage. Sabon’s body taunted him from the cobbled drive. “I’ll hear him out.”

Olem put a hand on Tamas’s shoulder when Tamas tried to rise. “Let me, sir.” He moved a half dozen feet down the ditch, scooting on his stomach. “Hold your fire!” he shouted. He stood up.

“Where’s your master,” Charlemund called.

“What do you want?” Olem demanded.

There was a pause. “To talk. We must be able to reach some kind of agreement. Tamas, I’ll meet you under a flag of truce.”

“Why should he trust you?” Olem said.

“You question me, boy?” the arch-diocel roared.

Olem stared defiantly back at the villa.

“I swear on the holy vestments, no harm will come to him inside my villa.”

“Come out here and talk,” Olem said.

“And receive a bullet for my troubles? I know Tamas too well. I’m a man of the Rope.”

Tamas would hang him from that rope. He signaled to Olem. Olem dropped back down to his belly and moved over to Tamas.

“It’s suicide, sir,” he said. “I don’t trust him.”

“We don’t have enough men to take him,” Tamas said. “He can tear us apart with Nikslaus in there. We can’t get a clear shot at the sorcerer.”

“What can you do?”

“Send for more men. The rest of my cabal. If I can keep him talking until Andriya, Vidaslav, and Vlora get here…”

“It will take hours for reinforcements,” Olem said.

“Regardless…” Tamas watched the villa. Still no sign of Charlemund. The presence of the Wardens and a Kez Privileged was enough for him to know this was no mistake. Charlemund was the traitor. Would he try to talk his way out of this? Did he just want Tamas for a shield? He swore on the Rope. How much did that mean to a man like him?

“Give the order for reinforcements,” Tamas said.

Olem scurried off to a nearby group of soldiers. He returned in a few moments. “Done.”

“Tamas!” Charlemund called. “I won’t wait all day. Do we keep shooting or will you let me explain myself? Be reasonable!”

“Reason,” Tamas spat. “This bastard betrays me and talks of reason. What will he say? He was trying to cut some kind of deal with the Kez to save Adro?”

“He’ll say anything, sir,” Olem said. “Don’t trust any man who surrounds himself with beautiful women. Least of all a priest.”

“Wise words.”

“You’re going to go in, aren’t you,” Olem said.

“Yes.”

“I’m going with you.”

Tamas opened his mouth.

“Stuff it in your ass, sir. I’m going with you.” Olem stood up. He gestured to a nearby soldier. “Don’t let them leave this place,” he said. “Even if they have the field marshal. Shoot to kill.”

Kresimir’s palace was immense. Taniel had never seen its equal, not in Adopest or Kez or Fatrasta. He could look down the street and not see the end of it. Unlike the other buildings in Kresim Kurga, the rock had not been stained black by soot. It was volcanic, as if the mountain had spewed it out in one gigantic piece and let it cool, the sides polished enough he could see himself in them. Taniel couldn’t find a single crack, or see the marks of a workman’s tools.

“It’s a complex,” Del explained as they searched for an entrance. “Kresimir’s home on earth. He and the Predeii lived here for decades.”

“Yes,” Bo said, feeling along the sheer wall. “I remember reading about this place. But how do we get in? Sorcery?”

“There is an entrance,” Del said.

“Lions!”

The call came from the rear of their small group. Del began to shake again, pressing himself up against the wall. Taniel grabbed him, pushed him forward. “Let’s go! Run!” he said.

He could see the first one emerge from the street they’d left not long ago. It scrambled around the corner, padded back feet thumping, front claws scrabbling for purchase on the cobbles. It was three times the size of a dog, teeth sharp. There was blood on its jaws.

They fled, looking for an entrance to the building.

“They get bored chasing Julene?” Taniel said to Bo as they ran.

“Or she scared them off,” Bo gasped. He was sucking wind. Taniel grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him on. More lions followed the first. Six in total.

“Pole!” Taniel said. “If you have a trick ready for these things, pull it out!”

Ka-poel sprinted on ahead, putting some distance between her and the others before she came to a stop. She whipped a set of dolls out of her bag. These were not humanlike as they’d been before. These looked like beasts—cave lions. She grabbed a pair by the legs and smashed them against the volcanic building.

One of the lions howled. It skidded to the ground and pawed at its head. Ka-poel dropped one of the dolls and stomped on it. The downed lion erupted, blood spraying from its body as it was crushed by an unseen hand.

Ka-poel returned the other doll to her bag.

The cave lions fell on their crushed companion. Teeth tore, claws flashed. One of them took only a mouthful of flesh and then began to run again, streaming blood behind him as he came at Taniel and the Watchers.

“Wait, that’s too loud!” Taniel said.

Too late. Fesnik had pulled the trigger. The shot glanced off the lion’s head, bringing it up short in surprise. The sound of the blast echoed through the buildings, interrupting the long silence. A bloom of smoke rose above Fesnik. The other cave lions paused in their feeding and looked toward them. Taniel swallowed hard. So much for the element of surprise.

A low whistle rang through the air in the shocked silence following the gunshot. Taniel looked around for the source.

Rina held a fluted bone to her mouth. The sound rose, and then was gone, as her dogs pricked up their ears.

“Go,” she said.

Their harnesses released, the three big dogs tore toward the feasting cave lions. The cave lions barely seemed to notice them, as they’d returned to rip at the flesh of their own kind. One screamed in surprise as Kresim hit it from the side. The mastiffs didn’t waste time. They went for throats, and the group of lions and dogs turned into a flying fury of fur.

Despite the cave lions’ size and claws, the dogs had taken them by surprise. They gained the upper hand, dispatching three of the lions faster than Taniel would have thought possible. They ganged up on the other two as more cave lions entered the street.

“Run!” Taniel yelled.

“Here.” Bo was some distance ahead. He gestured to them furiously. They reached him in a few moments to find a door cut into the solid side of the building. It took two men to push it open, working against the weight of the stone itself and the ages of disuse.

The last man came in and they pushed the door shut behind them. There was neither latch nor lock on the inside of the door.

“Where’s Rina?” Bo asked.

They opened the door. Rina stood back in the street, pistol drawn. Her whole body was shaking as the lions leapt onto her dogs.

“Come on!” Taniel shouted.

“I’ll not leave them.” Her quiet voice carried clearly.

Bo stepped outside. He lifted one gloved hand and twitched a finger, as if tapping on glass.

A sudden gale ripped through the street. Rina grabbed for her hat as it was lifted off into the sky. The fighting animals separated, their flanks covered in blood, the three dogs still miraculously alive. Every animal regarded Bo warily. The wind whipped around them and pushed. The dogs tumbled through the air, leaving the cave lions behind. They slammed into Rina, lifting her up with them. Bo stepped back inside the door. Dogs and woman followed close behind, and the door slammed shut, leaving them in darkness.

Something thumped into the door. Taniel put his back to it. He was joined by others. The muffled growls of cave lions came from outside. Someone lit a match.

Bo lay on the floor in a heap with the dogs and Rina. One of the dogs whined. Bo and Rina were unconscious—or dead, as far as Taniel knew. By the light of the match Taniel regarded his companions. Their faces were coated in sweat, lined with fear, covered in… what? Ash? Where had that come from? Taniel examined the floor. There was ash there, ancient, coating the floor a foot thick. At some point a fire must have raged through the building, destroying everything inside. Only the shell remained. He stared into the faces of his companions. They’d come all this way. For what? To be hunted like animals by cave lions in a dead city?

Taniel felt the horrible weight of failure. “Where is Del?” he asked. The monk was nowhere to be seen. Taniel called his name. No answer. A set of footprints in the ash led off toward the center of the building. Taniel heard another thump at the door and the scrabble of claws on wood.

Taniel, his back still against the door, snorted a pinch of powder. His senses grasped at any light—pinpricks, high above—to let him see. They were in a vast, open space. A dark container that seemed more like a mine than a building. He took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. “This doesn’t look like a palace,” he said.

“Taniel!”

The voice echoed around them.

“Del?” Taniel said.

“Over here, Taniel. Quickly!”

“Bo’s hurt,” he said.

“No time. You must come.”

Another thump against the door. A cave lion outside whined.

“Can you hold it?” Taniel asked.

“Go on,” Fesnik answered. “We’ve got it. Go take the shot.”

“Stay here,” Taniel said to Ka-poel. “Help them keep the door shut.”

He ignored her gesture of defiance and turned to run. The floor was polished, perfectly level. It might have been marble beneath the ash. He distanced himself from the light of the burning match behind him and tried to follow Del’s voice. He gave up, keeping his eyes on the footprints in the ash instead. Pinpricks of light from far above gave him just enough light to see in his powder trance.

He found Del standing near an enormous staircase of the type built inside the ballrooms of kings. It had no railings, and must have been made of the same rock as the walls of the palace in order to have survived whatever fire had gutted the building long ago.

“This doesn’t look like a palace,” Taniel said.

Del was quaking terribly. He barely seemed able to stand. He held out both hands to Taniel as if to plead. “It was once a mighty place,” he said. “Thousands upon thousands of rooms filled with gold and the finest woods and carpets. If you had light, you’d see the ashes. Only the husk was created from hardened rock. Kresimir did that. The inside was built by men, with wood and tools. All burned now. All gone.” His voice echoed eerily.

“No windows?”

“Come,” Del said. He pointed to the staircase. “We’ve got to get high enough to see the coliseum. The solstice is very soon.”

Olem helped Tamas to his feet and out of the ditch. Tamas straightened his jacket, brushed off his knees, adjusted his belt. “My sword,” he said. They hobbled to the carriage, where Tamas turned his back on the villa and bent next to Sabon’s body. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said. “My arrogance walked us into this trap. It’s about to walk me into another one. Forgive me.”

“Sir.” Olem handed him his sword and slipped him a sack of powder charges. Enough to kill a whole company.

“Bullets?” Tamas said.

Olem patted the breast pocket of his uniform.

Tamas buckled on his sword and turned toward the villa. He took it one step at a time with one hand on his cane and another on Olem’s shoulder. Let them think him weak. He was, but they’d think him less than he even was. With each step, Tamas expected to hear the pop of an air rifle or to see the rainbow flash of sorcery. He reached the front door.

“Not dead yet,” he said.

Olem gave him a long look. “I’m not reassured.”

One of the double doors of the villa opened. A Warden, an air rifle under one arm, stood in the doorway. Olem helped Tamas up the steps and inside. He paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. He counted four Wardens and three Church guardsmen, air rifles leveled at him.

The foyer was a simple place, white marble covered every inch with built-in benches on the walls to either side. A single marble bust of Charlemund stood on a half column in the center of the room, a testament to his ego. The minimalism of the foyer couldn’t be taken at face value. Tamas could see off into well-lit rooms full of vibrant color and art, with gold and velvet trim.

“Leave the door open so that my men can see me safe,” Tamas said to the nearest Warden. The Warden sneered.

Charlemund entered the foyer from a side room. “Take him,” he said.

Someone shut the door behind Tamas. Tamas reached for his sword, but a Warden grabbed his wrist. Another Warden slammed Olem in the stomach with the butt of his air rifle. Olem grunted, dropping to his knees. Tamas sagged without Olem’s support, the pain of his leg flaring through his powder trance.

“You call this good faith?” Tamas snarled.

“I call you a fool,” Charlemund said. “Besides, I didn’t lie. No harm will come to you in my care. I can’t promise the same when you reach South Pike.”

“South Pike?”

Charlemund flattened a crease on the front of his duelist’s uniform with one hand. “Yes.”

“What do you mean, South Pike?” Olem said. He began to climb to his knees.

“Silence that dog,” Charlemund said.

A Warden whipped Olem across the face with his air rifle. Olem fell to the floor, blood spilling from his brow.

Tamas clenched his fists and stopped himself from igniting powder. He needed Nikslaus in the room, too. “You had better hope he’s all right.”

“I’d like to know what you mean, Your Grace.” Nikslaus came into the room, patting sweat from his brow. His Kez uniform was dirty and wrinkled from the sorcerer’s box. “Tamas isn’t going to South Pike. He’s going with me, to Kez.”

Charlemund turned to Nikslaus. “Not anymore. Kresimir will arrive today. The only hope we have of preventing Adro’s complete destruction is to take this low-born swine.”

Nikslaus tugged at his Privileged’s gloves. “I don’t follow your superstitions, Your Excellency, nor do I report to the Church. I report to my king, and he wants Tamas’s head on a block.”

“There will be no Adro left for us to divide if we don’t appease Kresimir,” Charlemund said.

Nikslaus squeezed his hands into fists. “You won’t get out of this country without me,” he said.

“Nor you without me.”

Olem stirred beside Tamas’s foot. Tamas leaned on his cane and bent over, giving Olem a shoulder to pull himself up by. “Can you stand?”

Olem’s brow had been split. He wiped some blood from his eyes and felt his temple tenderly. “Send them to the pit, sir.”

Tamas stood up straight and rested both hands on his cane. Nikslaus turned toward him, sensing danger. The sorcerer narrowed his eyes.

Tamas felt Nikslaus open his third eye. “He can use his sorcery!” Nikslaus’s hands flashed up, fingers working through the air.

Tamas lit powder. Olem tossed the bag of bullets into the air, and Tamas concentrated on that. The bag ripped apart, shredded pieces falling to the floor. Bodies dropped, air rifles clattering to the pristine marble, blood spraying the walls. Light flashed in front of Nikslaus where bullets hit a hastily erected barrier of air.

“Flee!” Nikslaus screamed. His fingers worked frantically.

Charlemund stared at Tamas for one moment before he turned and ran.

“Don’t let him get away,” Tamas said. He couldn’t take his eyes off Nikslaus. One mistake and Tamas would be dead. He had to keep Nikslaus’s hands busy. Tamas lit powder, feeding off it in the smallest amounts, keeping a dozen bullets in the air and spinning. He threw them at Nikslaus. Nikslaus’s fingers danced nimbly. Tamas’s third eye revealed flashes of color as his bullets struck invisible shields. Tamas lit more powder, throwing the bullets harder.

Olem scrambled to his feet. He raced past Nikslaus, sword in hand, only to stop as five Church guards rushed into the room. They looked toward Nikslaus and Tamas, regarded their silent battle, and turned on Olem.

Tamas gripped the head of his cane. His advances were getting closer to Nikslaus as the sorcerer’s defense weakened. He could only deflect the bullets so fast, and Tamas wouldn’t give him the time to erect a better barrier with his sorcery. Tamas flicked his gaze toward Olem. The soldier had taken down one enemy, but there were too many. He was being pushed back, almost even with Nikslaus.

Tamas was running out of powder. Charlemund was getting away.

Nikslaus brushed his nose with one of his gloved hands, giving Tamas a moment to whirl a handful of bullets at Olem’s assailants. The bullets went through eyes and mouths, dropping the men instantly. Olem lunged forward, leaping the downed bodies, and took off after Charlemund.

Nikslaus brushed his nose again.

Tamas grinned. “Allergies?”

Nikslaus took a step back. Tamas leaned on his cane, hobbled a step forward. Nikslaus gritted his teeth, stepped back. Tamas clicked the tip of his cane on the marble.

Nikslaus’s fingers twirled and jumped. Sweat began to trickle down his brow as Tamas sent more bullets at him. Each bullet careened away, deflected. Tamas was running out of powder. He sucked in a raw breath, the smell of spent powder sending his blood pumping. The powder trance was a deep one.

Nikslaus flung his hand in a wild gesture and uttered a hoarse cry.

Tamas yelled out as he tumbled to the floor, his concentration broken. He stared at the two halves of his cane, then up at Nikslaus. The Privileged advanced and stood above him. He held his fingers just so, as if he was about to snap them. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his hair wild. He looked down at Tamas. “You old fool.”

“You win,” Tamas said, lighting a touch of powder.

Nikslaus screamed. He stumbled back, clutching his left hand. He slammed into the column with Charlemund’s bust. The bust clattered to the floor, shattering a marble tile, and Nikslaus tripped over the column and fell to the ground.

Tamas got to his hands and knees, ignoring the pain in his leg. He used the longer piece of his cane to leverage himself onto one foot. He hopped over to Nikslaus. He lit some powder. Nikslaus screamed again as a bullet laced through his right hand, tearing the arcane symbols on his Privileged’s glove. Nikslaus stared at his hands, matching bullet holes through the palms of each. The white gloves were covered in blood, obscuring the remaining runes.

“Now you know what it’s like to have your power taken from you,” Tamas said. He drew his sword and knelt down beside Nikslaus. He took one of the sorcerer’s hands in his and pulled off the glove. Nikslaus whimpered.

“Those are some delicate fingers,” Tamas said.